It hit me, like a punch in the stomach. I could go for years and never see her again. Just like this. People losing each other, their hands slipping loose in a crowd. I might never see her again. Those dull eyes behind the dry aquarium, the shape of her back. My God, how could I have avoided knowing this all these months? I wanted my mother, I wanted something to hold on to me, not let me slip away.
“Hey, what’s all this?” Uncle Ray came over and sat next to me at the table. He stuck his cigarette in his beer can and took my hands in his. “Don’t cry, kid. What’s wrong? You can tell Uncle Ray.”
All I could do was shake my head, raw sobs like razors.
“You miss your mom?”
I nodded. My throat felt like there were two hands wrapped around it, squeezing, forcing water out of my eyes. Snot ran from my nose. Ray scooted his chair so he could put his arm around me, handed me a napkin off the table. I buried my face in his chest, and let my tears and snot wet the front of his T-shirt. It felt good to be held. I breathed in his smell, cigarettes and stale body and beer and fresh-cut wood, something green.
He held me, he was solid, he wouldn’t let me drift away. Talking to me, telling me nobody was going to hurt me, I was a great kid, nothing was going to happen. After a while he wiped my cheeks with the back of his hand, lifting my chin so he could look at me, pushing my hair out of my eyes. “You really miss her, huh. Tell me, is she as pretty as you?”
I smiled a little, his eyes were so sad and kind. “I have a picture.” I ran down to my room, brought back a copy of my mother’s last book, Dust. I gently stroked my hand over her picture on the back cover, on the beach at Big Sur. Huge rocks in the water, driftwood. She wore a fisherman sweater, her hair swept back by the wind. She looked like a Lorelei, cause of shipwreck. Odysseus would have had to lash himself to the mast. “You’re going to be prettier,” he said.
I wiped my nose on the short sleeve of my T-shirt, smiled. My mother was a woman people stopped in the market to wonder at. Not like Starr, but just at the sheer beauty. They seemed startled she had to shop and eat like anyone else. I couldn’t imagine owning beauty like my mother’s. I wouldn’t dare. It would be too scary. “No way.”
“Hey, way. You’re just a different type. You’re the sweetheart type. Your mother looks like she could take a bite out of ya—not that I’d mind, I can take it rough too, but you know what I mean. For you, they’ll just fall down like flies.” He peered into my lowered face with his kind eyes, speaking so gently. “You hear me? You’re going to have to push the bodies out of the way if you want to go down the street.”
Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before. Even if he was just lying to make me feel better, who bothered to do that now?
He flipped through some of the pages, reading. “Look, this one’s about you.”
I snatched it away, my face flaming. I knew the poem.
She used to recite it at poetry readings. I would sit drawing at my table as if I didn’t hear her, as if it weren’t me she was talking about, my body, my childish girl parts. I hated that poem. What did she think, I didn’t know what she was talking about? I didn’t care who she read it to? No, she thought because I was her daughter that I belonged to her, that she could do anything she wanted with me. Make me into poetry, expose my chicken bones and my cowrie shell, my unopened woman.
“What happened to her?” he asked.
“She killed her boyfriend,” I said, looking down at her photo, her profile a spear under my ribs, piercing my liver, my right lung. A tear ran off my eyelash and fell on her picture. I wiped it off. “She’s in prison.”
He shrugged. As if that was something people did. Not good, but not shocking.
I FINISHED OUT the eighth grade at Mount Gleason Junior High, my third school this year. I didn’t know anyone, didn’t want to. I ate lunch with Davey. We quizzed each other using flash cards he’d made for himself. What’s a baby ferret called? A kitten. How many kittens in a litter? Six to nine. Constellation Andromeda. Major feature? The Great Andromeda Nebula. Favorite object for observation? The double star Gamma Andromedae. Distance to earth? Two million light-years. Anomaly? Unlike the other spiral nebulae, which are receding from us at high velocities, Andromeda is approaching us at a rate of three hundred kilometers per second.
My caseworker visited our trailer often, sat with Starr, trying to look handsome on the porch under the spider plants. One day he said my mother was settled at the women’s prison in Chino now, and could have visitors starting Thursday. There was a group that brought children to see their parents in prison, and I was going to have a visit.
After the last visit, I was afraid. I didn’t know if I could do that again. What if she was still like that, a zombie? I couldn’t stand that. And I was afraid of the prison, the bars and hands snaking between them. Clanging their cups. How could my mother live there, my mother who arranged white flowers in a crackle-glass vase, who could argue for hours about whether Frost was an important poet?
But I knew how. Drugged, sitting in a corner, vaguely reciting her poems, plucking pills of fuzz off the blanket, that’s how. Or beaten senseless by guards, or other prisoners. She didn’t know when to lie low, avoid the radar.
And what if she didn’t want to see me? What if she blamed me for not being able to help her? It had been eight months since that day at the jail, when she didn’t even recognize me. At one point in the night, I even thought of not going. But at five I got up, showered, dressed.
“Remember, no jeans, nothing blue,” Starr reminded me the night before. “You want to walk back out of there, don’t you?” I didn’t need reminding. I wore my new pink dress, my bra and my Daisy Duck shoes. I wanted to show her I was growing up, I could take care of myself.
THE VAN CAME at seven. Starr got up and signed the papers while the driver eyed her figure in her bathrobe. There was one other kid in the van. I took the seat in front of him, also by the window. We picked up three more on the way out.
The day was overcast, June gloom, the moisture in the air beading on the windshield. You couldn’t see down the freeway as far as the next overpass. It came out of the mist and then it vanished, the world creating and erasing itself. It made me carsick. I cracked the window. We drove a long way, through suburbs and more suburbs. If only I knew what she would be like when I got there. I couldn’t imagine my mother in prison. She didn’t smoke or chew on toothpicks. She didn’t say “bitch” or “fuck.” She spoke four languages, quoted T. S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas, drank Lapsang souchong out of a porcelain cup. She had never even been inside a McDonald’s. She had lived in Paris and Amsterdam. Freiburg and Martinique. How could she be in prison?
At Chino, we turned off the freeway and drove south. I tried to memorize this, so I could find it again in my dreams. We drove past nice suburbs, then not-so-nice ones, then brand-new subdivisions alternating with lumberyards and farm equipment rentals. Finally we came to real country, and drove along roads with no signals, just dairies and fields, the smell of manure.
There was a big complex of buildings on the right. “Is that it?” I asked the girl next to me. “CYA,” she said. I shook my head. “Youth Authority.”